“It was rubbish, of course,” he continued. “Well, the part about the gold treasure.”
“Of course.” Meg squeezed Dougal’s hand so that she wouldn’t give herself away. That dried flower was a dahlia.
“I’ll be sure to parade him around town come morning,” the constable added. “Might deter the less determined.”
“That would be much appreciated,” Dougal said as the constable and two of his men marched the stranger away.
“No more garden tours!” Lady Beatrice barked in lieu of a good night. She dragged the spear up the stairs with her.
It took an age for the business to be done, for Canterbury and the others to return to their beds. Meg only realized she was still holding Dougal’s hand when his thumb stroked her knuckle. She didn’t let go. Instead, she used it to tow him behind her when she took off at a run towards the portrait hall.
“What are we doing here?” Dougal asked when she stopped between rows of Roman gods, under a portrait of a woman in breeches with flowers in her bodice.
“Lady Dahlia,” Meg announced. “Known to be the family pirate.”
“There was a family pirate?”
“Yes,” Meg said. “And that flower you found…”
“It’s a dahlia,” he said slowly.
“Exactly. She could easily have found a treasure and taken it. Or moved it. To poke at her father.” She wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps I am reading too much into it.”
“Only one way to find out,” Dougal said.
As he took the huge painting down off the wall, Meg used her candle to light the other tapers in the room. Soon a warm glow encased them, creating an island of light where they were perfectly alone. Dougal ran his hand over the wall where the painting had hung but there were no indications of another secret compartment.
Meg sat on the floor, taking in the thick layer of paint, the brushstrokes, the dabs of red on the dahlias. Nothing was untoward or obviously altered. She touched the stretched linen carefully but there were no bumps, nothing to suggest it might have torn or been stitched together.
She had been so certain she was onto something.
She sighed. All this fuss over nothing.
Dougal crouched next to her. She wondered how disconcerted he would be if she sniffed him. The layers of cedar and soap made her want to do things to him.
She turned her attention to the frame, hoping the shifting shadows hid her blush.
That’s when she saw it.
“There’s something stuck inside the corner of the frame here,” she said. “It looks like a bit of paper.”
“Can you get it out?”
She pulled gently. “It’s been there awhile.” She reached out for the dagger she already knew he was handing her. “Clearly, I’m going to have to start carrying a knife on my person, along with those hair ribbons.”
“Keep that one,” Dougal suggested. “Let that miscreant come at me for theft.”
“Good point.”
She used the tip of the blade to work the parchment loose. It was just a scrap, ripped from some book or another and folded into a flat little square. Meg flattened it out, faded ink in a bold hand. She read it slowly. “Seven seashells for your boat, Seven roses for your coat, and seven stars for your wrath. A flash of green when day turns to night; Panic not, the treasure is in sight.”
She exhaled. “A riddle.”
“You did it,” Dougal said.
“Have I mentioned that I hate riddles?”
“But it looks like you were right,” he said. “She found the treasure and moved it.”
“Just to taunt her father. And with a riddle as an extra insult.”
“You have to admire that kind of commitment to spite.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t ever tell Charlie I said that.”
She chuckled. “I won’t.” She read the riddle over again. “We’re going to have a devil of a time deciphering this. For one, does she mean seven stars in the sky? As for navigation from a ship? Or seven stars in this house?” They both looked up to the darkened ceiling, the candlelight catching the glint of at least a hundred stars. Nearly every room in the abbey was the same.
“This could take months,” Meg whispered.
“It looks like the treasure hunt is not over, after all,” Dougal said, just as softly. He sounded pleased.
Almost as pleased as she felt.